


Decorated Emergency

by imperfectkreis



Category: Far Cry 4
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Closeted Character, Consent Issues, Cultural Differences, Emotional Manipulation, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Sex Under False Pretenses, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 18:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: There are things Ajay wants, and things Sabal wants. Even if they use each other, they both might leave empty handed.(Everything this technically consensual; but these aren't ideal or healthy circumstances)





	Decorated Emergency

His parents lived between these walls, once. Ajay did too, though not for long. Even after weeks in Kyrat, the air still smells strange, like spice and raw meat and broken leaves, sappy and bitter. Like the Indo-Pak Mart in the run-down stripmall two suburbs over, where his mom would drag him in to buy henna for her hair and gee that would sit untouched in the fridge for months as she remembered and forgot it was even there.

The shop clerk had a thick mustache and wore short sleeved shirts with horizontal stripes and though he was always the same man he would always ask the same question, “Where are you from?” Because his mom was neither Indian or Pakistani and everyone knew. She would lie, insisting that they were really from UP and hoping that the Gujarati clerk never called her bluff. He didn't, just putting the boxes of henna and the tin of gee into a tissue-thin plastic bag and handing Ajay’s mother her change from the twenty-dollar bill.

Ajay could never get out fast enough. Happy to be back outside where the air didn't smell so oppressive and flowed freely. And there weren't grains of stray rice always under his feet. When he got older, he would ask his mom if he could wait in the car. And she would let him.

But that doesn't matter now, because Ajay is in Kyrat for the first time since he was a baby. And he didn't even stand a fucking chance. 

He doesn't know what he expected. Like, somehow, in a weird way he would cross the border (from UP, no less) and feel a sense of being home. Something warm and familiar, clicking into place. But this is no more home than anywhere else he's ever been. 

Less so, maybe. But he chalks that up to being in a war he doesn't understand. War was easier, when he didn't have to understand. Just follow orders, get fucked, get out. Pretend to be a person again, once his tour of duty was over. But this isn't like his service. This is supposed to be his birthright. A gift from his father that he never wanted. 

He lays back against the sheets, an open Tupperware container next to him on the mattress, the sides scarred up from being microwaved too many times. It's filled with roasted chana, that he bites down on one by one between his back molars. The dry skins stick to the roof of his mouth and between his teeth and no matter how many he eats, he never feels full. But the crunching noise is soothing.

His phone from the States doesn't get reception here. Obviously. Just “No Service” in tiny type across the top of the screen. But he still charges it when he can, so he can listen to the same thirty songs he has downloaded on repeat. The noise helps him sleep. Or at least keeps him from dreaming. The former isn't possible without the latter.

The handheld radio on the floor crackles, Sabal’s voice ringing out, even over the sound of Ajay’s headphones. Ajay considers just ignoring whatever Sabal is saying. He's too exhausted to care right now. He said he wanted to be left alone. 

Noore...throwing herself to the tigers. Because everything she loved was already dead and gone. Ajay watched as she was torn apart by beasts she had ordered beaten, to draw out their vicious nature for the entertainment of the crowds.

Ajay doesn't have anything to fight for here. A memory? But whose? Sabal thinks this is what his father would have wanted. His mother too. Why else would she send him to Kyrat with a final wish? Searching for an illusive Lakshmana?

But what does Ajay owe Kyrat, when it's already consumed both his parents?

“I'm outside,” Sabal’s voice repeats, just as there's a knocking at the door downstairs. “Brother.”

Ajay doesn't like it, how Sabal calls him brother. But it's better than “son of Mohan,” because Ajay doesn't know Mohan. And he never did. The name is just a ghost, haunting his blood.

He gets out of bed, looking for his shirt, even though it's already stained with sweat and grime and blood (not his, at least not today). Taking the ladder down, he can still hear Sabal’s voice on the radio upstairs.

Ajay unlocks the door, before Sabal gets the chance to break it down. The renovations to make the homestead livable cost enough already. Ajay doesn't want to already have to pay someone to replace the fucking door.

“Brother,” Sabal calls him, never noticing how Ajay cringes. “I was worried, when you did not answer,” his mouth turns down in a frown.

Ajay likes Sabal’s mouth, the curve of his lips, the way they part. He's not certain he likes Sabal. 

A traditionalist, Amita called her rival. The concealed threat barely hidden. Nowhere in our sacred texts, she explained, does it say you can't fuck other men. But our ‘traditions,’ she sneered, Sabal will gut you if you touch him.

But no one has touched Ajay in a long time. At least, not without the intent to hurt him.

“I'm fine,” Ajay bites, ready to slam the door back in Sabal’s face. He doesn't need to be here. 

But before Ajay can act, Sabal slips under Ajay’s arm, between the doorframe and Ajay’s body, and invites himself inside. 

“It looks wonderful,” Sabal says, looking around the first floor, “like a real home. Like your home,” he clarifies.

Ajay chokes, “Yeah,” not willing to explain how much of a stranger he really is. Sometimes, he thinks he can just walk away. Leave Kyrat behind. What are Sabal and Amita going to do? Send the Golden Path after him? Drag him back? Have him killed? But it's impossible to try and escape, anyway. Because the Golden Path might not do it, but Pagan Min would.

“I have supplies for you,” Sabal inclines his head towards the door, “we wouldn't want you going without. So I drove them up myself.”

Gritting his teeth, Ajay thanks him. That was so thoughtful. It's all a game. Maybe tomorrow, or even later tonight, Amita is sure to pass him a similar basket of lies. Ajay isn't stupid. He's trapped. There's a difference. 

So what if Sabal guts him? That might be better than this endless holding pattern. Where the Golden Path feeds him crumbs of independence. Tiny morsels that almost make Ajay feel as if he matters, beyond some figurehead from decades past. He's not his father. Or his mother. And since coming to Kyrat, he barely knows himself.

“Sabal,” Ajay licks at the inside of his mouth, clearing the last of the crunchy film from the chana from between his teeth, “why did you really come?”

Sabal isn't that much shorter, maybe an inch at most. But he's smaller, wiry, lean. With thin wrists and a shallow chest. Ajay knows like this, just the two of them, he can use his bulkier frame to intimidate Sabal into backing down, to giving in. But it might not even cross Sabal’s mind that Ajay would challenge him. Especially after having been played the fool for so long. 

Ajay drops his hand to Sabal’s hip. A provocation if there ever was one. Holding very still, Ajay waits for Sabal’s answer, waits to see just how valuable he is to Sabal’s plans for the Golden Path.

Sabal’s jaw tightens, his eyes downcast, looking away from Ajay’s face. And for the first time, Ajay wonders if Amita has already told Sabal what she guessed from the first day they met.

(Ajay and Amita joked about it, after her disposition had softened towards him. But before he realized he was nothing to her. Nothing but a wrench thrown in her plans, that she was forced to integrate into her machine, her grand plan for Kyrat. They laughed, saying that even across cultural differences, they could see each other, as they were. As other people refused to see them.)

Sabal can't keep his expression neutral enough to hide his disgust with him. But he's calculating. This will give him an advantage that Amita doesn't have. Because Sabal knows Amita won't take a husband, or a lover (he's so stupid. Just because she won't take a man to bed, Sabal thinks she's broken. It would never occur to him that Amita is fucking one of the Path members loyal to her. A woman with brown eyes and red in her hair named Ishani). 

(Sabal is stupid too. Because he thinks he's the only one capable of treachery.)

With a stiff tilt of his head, Sabal looks up at Ajay, forcing a smile. He parts his lips. He thinks Ajay wants him to play the part of a woman. Disgusting. Stomach acid churns in Ajay’s stomach and he wants to back out. But he doesn't want to lose ground. 

“You're important, Ajay. To the Golden Path,” he looks down, clutching his hand around the front of Ajay’s filthy tee, his nails scraping against his chest. Looking up through dark lashes, Sabal finishes, “and to me.” And Ajay wonders if Sabal practiced this very exchange. Stood in front of a mirror in some abandoned school house bathroom, repeating platitudes and sweet lies to himself, until they sounded like almost truths in the tenor of Sabal’s voice.

Did he watch videos on his laptop? Of men kissing other men? Of hands and mouths and cocks, with the couple hours of steady internet connection they can manage every few days?

How much time and effort and discomfort did Sabal invest in him? More than any sincere lover Ajay has fucked. Maybe there’s comfort in that.

Ajay takes his hand to Sabal’s chin, gently holding his jaw so Sabal can't turn away. He ignores how Sabal tries to twitch away. Sabal ignores it too, forcing himself to relax in Ajay’s grip.

“You're important to me too,” Ajay hates the sincerity in his voice. He hates it even more when he shudders at Sabal wrapping his arms around his waist. And he hates that his desire for Sabal to touch him is real. Because attraction is fucked up and doesn't just go away when the subject of your desire turns out to be a manipulative bigot.

It's Sabal who kisses him first, with parched lips and gentle pressure, running his tongue along the outside of Ajay’s mouth. Ajay pushes back, putting Sabal against the wall with a firm shove before draping his body over top of Sabal’s slighter frame.

Sabal tugs at the neckline of Ajay’s shirt. It's stiff and smells terrible. In one fluid motion, Ajay reaches back to grab his collar to pull it over his head.

Any time he's not touching Sabal, prompting him for more, more touches, affection, attention, Sabal shuts down. His back against the wall and hands straight at his side.

It takes all of Ajay’s self-control not to drop to his knees there and then. Pull down Sabal’s pants and take his soft cock into his mouth. Tease and milk it until Sabal is hard and ready, leaking and flush, stretching Ajay’s lips open as he bobs his head. And afterward, Sabal will hate himself for having loved this so much.

But, instead, Ajay pins him to the wall, licking into his mouth and grinding his own erection against Sabal’s leg, whispering sweet words, confessions of how long he's waited. How much he wants to touch Sabal everywhere, skirting one hand over Sabal’s waistband, a quiet plea to be let inside.

The way Sabal tenses gives the game away. He didn't think things would get this far, this fast. He's in over his head without a life preserver. And Ajay is the only thing keeping him afloat, while trying to shove his head under the water, kiss by kiss.

Ajay smiles, pulling back. He whispers it's okay, kissing against Sabal’s exposed neck. 

He's a stranger here is Kyrat. He doesn't know the language, or the customs, the terrain, or their expectations. He's been flying blind for weeks, dependent on Sabal or Amita to guide him, hold his hand like a precious child. But here, in the quiet of Ajay’s parent’s home, it's Sabal who is the lost lamb, heading for the slaughter.

Ajay isn't cruel. At least, he doesn't think he is. But if he can't control something, anything while he's here, he's going to die. The man he was before Kyrat will die.

“We don't have to rush,” Ajay comforts, running one hand up and down Sabal’s side, feeling how he shivers at the touch. Sabal’s pupils dilate and Ajay presses his leg between Sabal’s thighs again. He's getting hard. “I'm just so glad you feel the same,” Ajay whispers, nipping at Sabal’s bottom lip.

Sabal’s green eyes look bigger than they are, warmth creeping across his cheeks. Ajay smiles, rubbing his thumb in soft circles on Sabal’s hip, “Can you stay awhile?”

Breathing deeply, Sabal finally answers, “Yes.”

Satisfied, Ajay steps away, going to his backpack by the door to pull on a clean shirt. He then turns towards the tiny kitchen, “I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid, hmm,” Ajay feigns disinterest. Though every nerve in his body is screaming to throw Sabal onto the floor, pull his pants down and bring him off. With his hand or mouth or cock. Doesn't matter. Ajay just wants to see Sabal a glorious, fucked-out mess on his floor.

Turned away from Sabal, and crouched low with the fridge door open, Ajay pushes the heel of his hand against his erection, trying to will it back down. He has a paper packet of uncooked chicken that the supply run brought him last time they came by the homestead. He knows how to boil rice on the stove as well.

“If you need more help,” Sabal offers, “I can send a woman.”

Ajay jokes, “I would think after that, you'd realize I have no need for a woman.” Ajay is bisexual, but trying to explain that to Sabal is useless, and would cause more problems while solving nothing. Pretending to only be interested in men works to Ajay’s advantage here.

“I meant,” Sabal stumbles, “for the cooking and the cleaning.”

“I don't mind doing it myself,” Ajay starts heating oil to cook the chicken. “Just because I'm not good at it, doesn't mean I can't do it myself.” The last thing he wants is some stranger always in his parents’ house. This is the one place in the whole country where he can (usually) have some privacy.

Sabal doesn't help him cook. Ajay putters around the kitchen by himself, chopping onions, mixing them in with oil and curry powder, turning the chicken as is cooks. He knows he's not doing it ‘right’ and Sabal will probably think it tastes like shit. But it's the same improvised way of cooking that Ajay has managed with since he moved out of his mom’s house. Tossing things together until they almost look right and are at least edible enough that he doesn't get food poisoning. 

He spoons out rice onto two plates before checking the chicken. Using a fork, he pulls apart one of the legs, making sure it looks cooked through before adding meat to the rice.

They eat quietly at the table, and Ajay knows Sabal thinks the food is terrible, because he mentions sending a girl again. Ajay tells him no. He's been cooking for himself for almost ten years. And while it might not be to Sabal’s tastes, he likes the food just fine.

Sabal doesn't help him wash up either, sitting at the table while Ajay transfers leftovers into the old margarine containers to stick back in the fridge. Chances are, most of it will spoil before he gets the time to eat it. But at least he’ll have something to eat tonight. Tomorrow morning he already has another mission planned.

He hears the scrape of the chair against the floor as Sabal gets up, then footsteps behind his back. There's nothing to help with now. So Sabal must want something else.

There's a soft weight on Ajay’s waist, as Sabal presses his hand down. Ajay wasn't expecting this, thinking that Sabal would be relieved to be given a way out. 

“We could go to bed?” Sabal suggests. And Ajay doesn't doubt that he's been repeating the words in his head since Ajay first got up to do the dishes. 

Ajay lays his hand on top of Sabal’s, “Are you sure? I meant it, we don't need to rush.”

“I'm sure,” and none of the hesitation of earlier is detectable in Sabal’s voice.

Ajay heads up the ladder first. He picks the tub of chana off the bed, putting the top back on and setting it on the dresser. Later he'll take it back downstairs.

“Sit on the edge of the bed,” Sabal says with building confidence. 

Ajay pulls off his shirt before he listens, planting his feet far enough apart for Sabal to kneel between them. He wouldn't say he's looking forward to this. Watching Sabal “debase” himself just because he thinks it's what Ajay wants. But, beyond that, Sabal probably isn't going to be any good at giving head. Hell, a guy like Sabal probably isn't any good at pleasing a woman either. 

“Let's do something else,” Ajay suggests, but only after Sabal is on his knees, one hand on the crotch of Ajay’s jeans. 

Ajay grabs at Sabal’s shirt, pulling him up and telling him to take off his shoes before he gets into bed. He doesn't force Sabal to take off his shirt. That won't make a bit of difference. Once Sabal’s shoes are off, Ajay drags him into bed, putting Sabal’s back to his chest and slotting their legs together. 

He runs his hand along the junction of Sabal’s shirt and pants, lifting up his shirt inch by tempting inch, until he lays his hand flat to the hairy plane of Sabal’s stomach. Ajay spreads his fingers wide, grinding his hips just enough that Sabal is sure to feel his erection press against his ass.

“It's okay,” Ajay kisses the back of Sabal’s neck. “I won't do anything you don't want.”

Neither of them want this. At least not under these conditions.

But Ajay likes it, even if he doesn't want it. The warm press of Sabal’s body in his arms, the slightly sweet scent of his hair. He slots one arm underneath Sabal’s body, curling his hand to rest on his stomach and hold him in position. Snaking the other arm around his waist, Ajay starts undoing Sabal’s fly.

If he doesn't have to look Sabal in the eyes, this is easier. Easier to pretend that Sabal really wants him. Easier to pretend he doesn't really want Sabal.

Because Sabal’s breathing hitches as Ajay pushes his hand down his pants, trying to shove the waistband far enough to pull out his cock. He wraps around it firmly starting to stroke in even cadence.

Ajay tightens his grip until Sabal hisses, letting up a little then until he relaxes. Sabal wasn't fully hard when Ajay started, but he is now. Even if he still doesn't really move. Sabal at least wraps his hand loosely around Ajay’s wrist. Not really restricting his movements. Just holding on.

Grinding his hips against Sabal’s ass, Ajay doesn't dare ask for more. Ajay thinks he might be able to get off like this, despite the layers of clothing between them and the lack of skin on skin. It's just been awhile since he's had a body in his bed. And something awful about Sabal’s submission keeps Ajay hard. He doesn't like knowing this about himself.

He kisses the back of Sabal’s neck again, before he says something stupid. As Sabal’s breathing grows ragged-tight, Ajay starts to bite, grazing his teeth against the sensitive skin of Sabal’s neck, applying pressure until Sabal gasps, throwing back his head to keep Ajay from having too much access.

“It's okay,” Ajay says, not trusting himself to be gentle anymore with his mouth. “It's okay to like this.”

Sabal is quiet as he comes, stifling the noise by biting into his own forearm. The fabric of his shirt will keep the bite marks from showing. And Ajay wonders if maybe Sabal has done this before? No. Impossible.

Ajay thrusts hard against Sabal’s ass, as if he really were fucking into him. Sabal doesn't say, or do, anything at all. Just holds still while Ajay manhandles him, pushing down his slacks further, until his ass and upper thighs are exposed.

“I promise, I promise I won't go inside, okay?” Ajay asks, untangling himself from Sabal just enough to pull his own erection out. This would be better with lube, but Ajay doesn't have any. So he spits into his hand and rubs the saliva across his cock. “I'm just going to put it between your thighs, okay?”

Sabal only nods, his hair catching against the pillowcase.

Ajay maneuvers them both until he can slot his cock between Sabal’s legs. Thrusting between them, the friction is so much better than before. It's not wet enough, and Sabal doesn't know how to flex his leg muscles quite right to make it tight, but the inside of his legs is smooth and Ajay likes the way Sabal’s balls feel pressing against the head of his cock when he pushes himself as far as he can go.

He comes like that, fucking in between Sabal’s thighs, Sabal’s breathing the only thing louder than his own heartbeat ringing in his ears. He spills against Sabal’s already spent balls, milky semen staining his bedsheets. He has to do laundry anyway.

Ajay knows he should let go, he should roll away. But he can't help but keep Sabal close, his cock softening between Sabal’s legs. His voice won't be steady yet, the force of his orgasm still spinning in his head, his stomach, still keeping his heart in overdrive. 

Once he does pull back, he tells Sabal he’ll get a towel, don't move. They can clean up. Sabal grunts, doesn't move. Ajay has to go downstairs for the towel. He uses his shirt to at least wipe down his cock before buttoning his jeans.

Ajay takes longer than he needs to wet the towel, wring it out. He wets it again. Listens for signs of life upstairs. Sabal is talking. Maybe to himself. He's left his radio downstairs. Ajay’s radio is upstairs, but he doesn't hear any of the distortion that comes with transmission. If Sabal is talking to someone, they're not responding.

He waits until Sabal is quiet again before ascending the ladder. Touching gently at Sabal’s shoulder, he coaxes him onto his back, so he can wipe down his stomach, his soft cock, and between his legs. Most of the semen is already dry, but Ajay doesn't want to scrub too hard. They both need a shower, anyway.

“I'm so glad,” Sabal lies, “that I'm yours.”

Ajay grits his teeth, “Don't say that,” there is only so much insincerity he can take. Maybe Sabal really is attracted to men. Maybe Ajay was wrong. But it doesn't matter, because they both know that's not what this is about.

And Ajay gets this weird vision, that things could have been different. That Sabal could be the one out of his element, standing in the cereal aisle at Target with a list in hand, and Ajay asks him if he's okay. Sabal admits that he doesn't know which one to try. He's had cereal before, but only bran. He's used to tomato and onion and poori in the mornings. But he's got no one to cook for him here. And this is supposed to be easy. But it's a decision he's not sure how to make.

Everything is really fucking banal, as Ajay dreams it. And he smiles at Sabal and explains the contents of each box in turn, until Sabal can make a choice. Ajay asks for his number and Sabal gives it freely. They can see where things go from there.

But, instead, Sabal looks at him with soft eyes, convinced he's beaten Amita in securing Ajay’s loyalty. And Ajay looks fondly back, because he knows he’ll want to have Sabal again. So, maybe, Sabal is right to be self-satisfied. 

“Ajay,” Sabal says, pronouncing his name ‘correctly,’ where Ajay has always said his own name wrong, “Come back to bed.”

Ajay listens. Because what's his alternative?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for taking the time to read! Comments and kudos are always appreciated 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


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